We’re both lefties, me and Yaz. His 1969 baseball card is my favorite. You can see the strong arms, but the look in his eyes is what makes him the best. Intense, steady, fearless. I’ve got all the stats on the back of the card memorized. Say a year and I’ll tell you how many hits he had, his average, even the number of at bats.
My Dad loved the Sox. He lived his entire 50 years without a World Series win, but he loved them anyway. That’s real love. They didn’t have to win it all for him. My Dad said Teddy Ballgame was the best of all time, but Dad was a Yaz fan too.
My Dad used to tell me to shut up when the game was on so he could concentrate. He’d sit sipping his Miller High Life while he focused on the black and white screen in the corner of our living room. Sometimes he even told Mom to shut up. When Dad said shut up, you shut up. He meant it. Sometimes stupid Sandy thought he’d be funny and make crowd noises during the game. He got a serious kick in the leg from Dad more than once. He’d end up limping upstairs to our bedroom until the game was over.
Sometimes Mom cried while Dad watched the game. Quietly. Dad didn’t take his eyes off the screen. I don’t know why she cried, but it seemed like it happened sometimes after Dad had yelled at her about something. Dad yelled at her a lot unless he was watching the Sox. When Mom cried, Sandy would go to her and sit on her lap even though they couldn’t see the tv from where Mom was sitting in her chair in a corner of the room. She put her arms around him. She’d whisper things to him like, you’re my good boy, I’ll protect you. But she didn’t stop crying.
Once Dad took me and Sandy to a game at Fenway. Mom stayed home. She wasn’t a real fan like us. I’ll never forget it. It was a warm July afternoon. Dad was in a really good mood. I wore my number 8 Yastrzemski t-shirt. Sandy had on his Reggie Smith number 61 t-shirt. Dad had his faded lucky Sox cap on. We even sang “Take me out to the ballgame” on the drive to the Park. That was the only time I heard Dad sing.
From our seats in the right field stands, I could see everything. You’d never think this big green field was hidden in the middle of Boston just for playing ball. It was amazing. The crowd was a sea of excitement. Most had on Red Sox caps or shirts. My Dad got Sandy and me one Fenway Frank each and we shared a popcorn. Love Fenway Franks! Dad got two beers in plastic cups for himself.
One great thing about being at the game is that we could yell as loud as we wanted to cheer on the Sox. When something good happened, Dad would clap and yell and so would Sandy and me.
The Sox were playing the Orioles. Dad told us the Sox had to win this one if they wanted to stay in the race. The game was close. Both teams had their aces pitching. Lonborg and Palmer had only given up one run each through eight innings. Lonborg shut down the Orioles in the top of the ninth on four pitches.
Between innings, Sandy had to go to the bathroom. He couldn’t wait. He really couldn’t wait. Dad’s eyes narrowed. He said goddammit. Dad grabbed Sandy by the hand and told me not to move while he took Sandy. He snarled at Sandy, this better be quick.
In the bottom of the ninth inning Palmer was getting tired and couldn’t find the plate against Mike Andrews. Walked him on four pitches. Yaz came up with two outs.
Yaz knew what to do. He dug in on the left side, stared daggers at the guy on the mound, hitched up his belt, cocked that left elbow up high, and waited. The pitch. Yaz clobbered it with that too-big bat. A screamer to right! Over the right fielder’s head. That bonehead was playing shallow. Andrews zipped around the bases. He scored! Yaz was on second standing up, hands on hips. Just doing his job. The crowd was deafening as the Sox won the game. No showboating. That’s just Yaz being a hero.
Dad got back with Sandy two minutes later. He had missed the heroics. I couldn’t wait to tell him what happened. But when he got back, he looked mad. Sandy looked scared. Before I could say anything, Dad gave me a look and said shut up. And then, let’s go. We filed out with the buzzing crowd. Dad walked fast to the car elbowing his way through the people. He got some dirty looks. Me and Sandy trailed behind, barely keeping up. On the way home, even Sandy knew he better be quiet.
When we got home, Dad said to Mom, I’m going out. She didn’t ask where. She didn’t ask Sandy or me about the game. She had this look in her eyes though that I hadn’t seen before. I thought I heard Mom say under her breath, yeah, get out.
One morning not long after that, Dad disappeared. Mom told us he died. I don’t really know how he just died and was gone so suddenly, without any warning or goodbyes. I guess he was really sick and didn’t tell us. Mom said it happened all of a sudden while me and Sandy were asleep. Dad just died and she had the ambulance take him away, and that was all we needed to know. She said to me, he’s not coming back. We’ll be fine. She looked kind of scared, but after he died she didn’t cry anymore.
After Dad was dead, I used to pretend Yaz was my Dad. Or that Dad had turned into Yaz when he died. I’d pretend we were playing catch together, or Yaz was pitching to me and teaching me how to hit like him. Sometimes I’d pretend he was hitting grounders to me. He’d tell me to get in front of the ball. It wasn’t really the same as having Dad around though. I wonder what it’s like being dead.
***
Arthur J. Goldberg is an aspiring short story writer and semi-retired municipal attorney in the Boston area. He is a lifelong Red Sox fan.
One Response
Great short story that brought back a lot of memories of being in the stands with my Dad. He loved taking his 4 sons to the game and allowing them to make as much noise as they wanted in the stands. Thanks Arthur keep it up.